Mercer's Belles

by Heather B. Moore

  She stilled and clasped her hands at her waist. “I apologize. Did I startle you?”

  “No. I was concentrating on . . .” He jammed a hand through his hair and looked over her shoulder out the window. “Never mind. What do you want?”

  The tone sounded like the same gruff one he used the first night of class, and she wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, I thought we might—”

  “If this is about your class, can’t you work out the problem yourself?” He jammed both hands on his hips. “Don’t I pay you a salary to manage these issues?”

  “Of course, Mister Ingemar. I’m so sorry I bothered you.” Keeping her head high, she marched across the clearing. She vowed to dismiss class ten minutes early tonight so she could be gone by the time Lang showed up. Why risk being subjected again to his foul mood?

  The next morning, Sorcha stepped outside at the appointed time for the weekly trip to Seattle for supplies.

  Blinne closed the door. “I’m looking forward to an outing. As happy as I am with our life here, I enjoy going to town and seeing new people too.” She retied the ribbons of her new straw hat. “Your blouse turned out well.”

  Sorcha glanced down at the tailored design, sewn in fabric with small yellow flowers that set off her hair color. “Thank you for the use of the pattern.”

  The rattle of harness chains and the heavy clumps of horses’ hooves cut off further conversation.

  Reaching into her skirt’s side pocket, Sorcha pulled out a chunk of carrot and walked up to the first stocky horse with her hand extended flat. “Hello, Kung.” She repeated the greeting to Tvilling, Blixt, and Ǻska, feeding each a treat. Then she strode past the driver’s seat, where Lang sat. She’d decided to ride in the wagon bed with Sten and Nels for last-minute practice.

  As he assisted her climb onto the dropped gate, Nels’s grin kept spreading.

  She settled herself opposite the two men and had them recite the script she’d written. With only part of her attention was she aware of Blinne’s lively chatter and Lang’s monosyllabic answers.

  As soon as he set the brake on the wagon in front of Morgan’s Mercantile, Lang jumped down and ran around to the back. “Please allow me to help you, Sorcha.” He glared at Sten and Nels, who remained sitting before he lowered the gate.

  Biting back a smile, Sorcha stood, then walked to the back of the wagon bed. “Of course.”

  Lang clasped his hands at her waist and swung her down to the packed dirt street. With a hand on her elbow, he took a breath. “I’m sorry for snapping at you yesterday, Sorcha, but you really didn’t need to avoid me last night.”

  The scent of his citrus soap teased her nostrils, and she fought not to inhale. “The sun had barely set, and I am capable of walking the incredibly short distance in the twilight.” She angled her head and glanced at him with a cocked eyebrow.

  “I received . . . bothersome news from home that I had to deal with. And you caught me in the middle of my deliberations.”

  “I’m sorry.” Now she felt awful for thinking he had an issue with her that caused his mood.

  “Tack, er, thanks.” He walked toward the front and scooped up a leather satchel from under the seat. “The matter has been dealt with.”

  Sten and Nels hopped down from the wagon, and Sten helped Blinne from the wagon seat.

  Inside the store, Sorcha tagged along behind Blinne as she wandered the aisles, looking at practically everything as usual.

  Lang went straight to the counter, where Mister Morgan stood, and handed over a list of needed supplies. He talked with the man as he pulled items to fill several crates.

  When she suspected Mister Morgan had finished, she signaled to Sten and Nels to approach the counter.

  Glancing at his crew, Lang creased his brow.

  Sorcha hurried to the end of the closest aisle to listen.

  “Meester Morgun.” Sten cleared his throat. “I want candy.”

  “Sure. What would you like?” The storeowner waved a hand at the glass jars displayed on the back wall.

  “I want candy, two sticks.” Sten placed two copper pennies on the counter.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears. Sorcha mouthed the words as Sten spoke, then glanced at Lang.

  Lang’s eyes widened, and a grin formed.

  Mister Morgan turned to lift down the jar.

  Nels stepped forward. “Yes, and jag vill—”

  “I want,” Sorcha whispered.

  Without looking around, he nodded. “I want lemon drops . . . um . . . for nickel.” He slapped down the silver coin.

  Grinning, Sorcha clapped her hands, barely making a sound. But she shared a long look with Lang, accepting his wink as high praise. The first test of her teaching was a success.

  The second jar landed on the counter, and the transaction finalized.

  “Well done.” Lang clapped each man on the shoulder. “You’ve learned well. Now help me load these into the wagon.” The last he spoke in Swedish.

  Sorcha glanced around for Blinne, who chatted with a dark-haired woman near the bolts of fabric.

  “Sorcha, come.” Blinne waved a beckoning hand.

  She crossed the floor and offered the stranger a smile.

  “Sorcha Geraghty, meet Missus Harriet Munns.” Blinne waved a hand between the two women. “She arrived here with Mercer’s first expedition two years ago. She traveled as Harriet Silverton, but she found a husband, Caleb, here in Seattle. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Blinne, let the woman speak.” Sorcha bobbed her head. “A pleasure to meet you, Missus Munns.” She glanced at the woman’s thick middle, then back to her shiny blue eyes. “You appear to be thriving in your adopted city.”

  “Call me Harriet. I’m glad to meet more women. I was away when the ship arrived, and I’ve been busy catching up with my private tutoring.” She rested a hand on her rounded stomach. “Actually, I recently visited Lizzie Ordway in her school on Whidbey Island.”

  Sorcha sucked in a breath. “Really? She was my Sunday School teacher back home in Lowell. How far away does she live?”

  “Thirty miles to Everett, then a short ferry ride.”

  A distance that Sorcha heard others say was not considered far in Washington Territory. “You have private students?”

  She nodded. “Since my pregnancy is advancing, the doctor recommended I give up teaching the children of the dock workers. So I arranged for a Miss Fleming from your group to take over the class.”

  On impulse, Sorcha reached out and clasped Harriet’s hand. “I’m glad to hear of your success. I’m working at the logging company, teaching the loggers English, but my first love is schooling children.”

  The bell over the door rang.

  “Miss Sorcha, Lang say we go.” Nels stood in the doorway, his hat clamped in his hands.

  The women said their goodbyes, and Sorcha and Blinne walked out to the wagon. This time, Sorcha claimed her usual place in the middle of the seat. On the return trip, everyone was in high spirits over Sten’s and Nels’s successful transaction.

  “I don’t like the looks of that.” Lang raised a hand to provide more shade than his hat brim.

  “What?” Sorcha followed Lang’s squinted gaze and spotted a single rider heading their way fast. She’d never seen one of the big Finnhorses the camp used gallop. The flaxen mane and tail rippled with each step.

  “What’s wrong?” Lang stood in the wagon.

  “Stanna.” Torg reined in the horse, then angled it until he stopped next to Lang. “Roald is hurt.”

  Lang dropped to the seat and slapped the reins on the team’s backs. “Direct me.”

  Sorcha grabbed tight and held on as he raced the horses up the path, through the camp, and into the forest until she spotted a crowd of men, all looking upward.

  Without saying a word, Lang handed Sorcha the reins and jumped out, shouting orders in Swedish. At the base of a tall tree, he strapped on climbing spikes, grabbed a thick belt with a rope attached, circled it around the
tree, slipped it in a metal loop, and started climbing.

  Two other men followed, keeping just below Lang’s position.

  “No.” Her scream didn’t turn a single head. Heart pounding against her ribs, Sorcha watched Lang lead the way up the trunk until her neck hurt from the awkward angle.

  Blinne pressed close, a fist clamped against her mouth.

  He reached the unconscious bearded man hanging upside down, his right leg clamped by a rope and the top of the tree swinging free. Lang kicked himself away from the trunk to jump around Roald’s body. Next he tossed the end of the rope over an upper branch.

  “I can’t watch.” Sorcha covered her face with her hands. Tully had been lost to her because of his dangerous choice, and she swallowed back a sob. Not again. “Is he all right?”

  “They’re strapping Roald onto some kind of litter.”

  Sorcha spread her fingers and watched through the spaces. Tense moments passed as the three men shared the weight of lowering the inert man to safety. Until Lang walked on the forest floor, she didn’t take a full breath.

  Someone jumped into the wagon and steered it in a circle.

  At the moment she caught Lang’s gaze, she charged forward. “You told me you worked as a manager. Someone who organizes and works from an office.” She angled a stiff arm toward the tree. “What you just did looked so dangerous.”

  His head jerked back. “Not for me.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I do anything to protect my guys. Not everyone on the logging crew has my skill set. I spent years in Sweden as a tree topper, and I knew what had to be done.”

  Her lips quivered. “But you could have been hurt.”

  His gaze narrowed. “Life includes dangers, Sorcha—some we can control, and others we cannot. Look at you . . .” He jerked his chin toward her hand. “You were sitting at a loom inside a sturdy building, and you got hurt. An injury that’s much worse than Roald’s lump on his forehead.”

  “I can’t be around such danger.” What she wished she’d said was, I can’t love someone who runs toward danger. Echoes of her pleas to Tully when he wanted to enlist sounded in her head. She’d sworn never again.

  “That’s part of being a logger.” He leaned close and stared into her eyes. “If you don’t like it, then maybe you shouldn’t be here. Excuse me, I have to take Roald into town to see the doctor.”

  At his words, she staggered backward, her heart cracking. Then she turned toward the cabin. The walk was long enough to solidify her plan. A day and a half later, she stepped off the ferry onto Whidbey Island and asked directions to Miss Lizzie Ordway’s house in Coupeville. A local farmer gave her a ride, and soon she knocked on the front door, using the pretext of satisfying a family obligation, or at least a Lowell, Massachusetts, one.

  “Of course, I remember you, Sorcha. Always so inquisitive.” Lizzie, a plain-looking woman, waved a hand inside. “I’m in the middle of a lesson, but we’ll have tea when I’m done.” Sorcha soaked up every tidbit of advice Lizzie offered during her short stay. Sure, Lizzie bestowed pats on the shoulders or backs and received smiling thanks from student and parent alike, which enlivened her features into a joyful look. But after the lesson ended, the children went home to their families, and the house became too quiet. Dedication to her profession, to the exclusion of having a man in her life, was Lizzie’s choice.

  Lang waited until Roald was back in his bunk and on the mend before he knocked on Sorcha’s cabin door. He’d heard from the crew she’d cancelled a couple classes. By now she should be ready to hear his full explanation, and then she’d understand his actions.

  The door opened.

  “Hello, Blinne. I’ve come to see Sorcha.”

  “How’s Roald?” Her brow wrinkled, and she clasped a hand at her throat.

  “Something bigger than an eighteen-inch thick trunk is needed to hurt that guy.”

  “Sorry, Lang, but Sorcha left the day of the accident. Come inside.” She walked to the desk and collected a note.

  Dread balled in his stomach, but he accepted the envelope and ripped it open.

  Dear Lang, I’m taking your advice and leaving the camp. You’re probably correct that I need a different setting. Count my absence as the interview days in April and May I was promised. I’m sorry I disappointed you. Yours, S.

  Pain ripped across his chest. He crumpled the note in his fist. “I had no idea she would react in this way.”

  Blinne’s eyes shot wide. “She’s coming back.”

  “You’re sure? I’ve never seen her as angry as that day.” He paced a few feet away and back.

  “I’m sure.” She smiled and nodded. “Sorcha would never leave me here for long.”

  He looked around the sitting room for evidence that Blinne spoke the truth. The harp case rested next to the desk. Relief unknotted his stomach. Nestled in the corner under a shelf were a stack of small books—the size that would fit into a child’s hand. “What are those?”

  Blinne walked to the desk and pulled out the stack. “On our long voyage, Sorcha wrote stories based on favorite Irish proverbs and blessings. She figured to supplement the children’s reading.” She shrugged. “So far, she hasn’t used them, because the men aren’t quite ready for some of the longer words.”

  An idea on how to structure his apology struck, but did he have enough time?

  When Sorcha stepped into the passenger coach two days later, she’d made her choice, which included something—rather, someone—different. She wanted both to teach and to have a family of her own.

  A thump sounded against the wheel, and a man climbed into the coach. He struggled to get inside with a crutch to compensate for his missing leg.

  Once the coach was underway, she waited until he was settled. “Did you fight in the war, sir?”

  “Naw. Not many from the territory did. Had no skin in the game.” He patted his leg, which ended at the knee. “I own a Smithson’s Dry Goods in Olympia. Last year, I was offloading a barrel of molasses that toppled off the ramp and crushed my leg. Doc Simms couldn’t save it.”

  How unfortunate . . . and in his own shop. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Could be worse. I could be blind and not enjoy talking with a lovely lady like you.” His wide grin exposed a missing eye tooth.

  They chatted for several minutes, until he slept. Gazing out the side window, she pondered the rational reasons why she shouldn’t be in love with Lang. Not a single one proved strong enough to counter the feelings of being alive when she was with Lang and lost when they were apart. Before she met him, he’d obviously done whatever task was needed at the top of the tree many times. Her fear over losing him to danger wasn’t logical, especially when she learned that a “safe” profession had its dangers. Not when he had been supportive in so many other ways.

  Doc Thompson was happy to give Sorcha a ride back to camp on his way to an outlying farm. “Too bad you’re returning so late. You missed the town celebration.”

  “Right, today is the Fourth of July. Well, I’m sorry not to have seen it.” She wondered what those at the camp had done. Had they come into town, or had Wikimak fixed a special meal?

  By the time the buggy reached the clearing, the reddish sun shot its last rays through the stand of trees. The only building with lights brightening the windows was the biggest structure.

  “Looks like everyone’s in the bunkhouse.” Doc tied off the reins and climbed to the ground. “I’d best have a look at those stitches in Roald’s head.” He helped her down before collecting her satchel from the luggage boot at the back.

  She entered the bunkhouse, surprised to see the room set up for her class and all the men seated. Lang stood where she normally did, holding her pointer. All she saw was his profile, but the sight was enough to set her blood racing.

  A grinning Blinne sat in a chair against the wall and waved.

  “You’re next, Torg.”

  Torg rose with a book held in his hand. “Bet-ter good man-ners t
han good looks.”

  Sten stood. “When the apple is ripe, it will fall.”

  Nels rose to his feet. “There is no fireside like your own fireside.”

  They read the titles from her proverbs stories. She glanced at Blinne, who must have provided the copies but couldn’t catch her eye.

  “May the sun shine . . . all day long . . . everything go right . . . and nothing wrong. May those you love . . . bring love back to you . . . and may all the wishes . . . you wish come true” was recited by a row of men who said only three or four words each.

  Her favorite Irish blessing. Blinne was definitely a participant. Pride swelled in her chest, and she swallowed hard against a dry throat. In her absence, someone coached her group. Their speaking cadence was smoother, and a few mastered new words.

  After handing off the pointer to the nearest man, Lang turned, cradling a small book, but he didn’t look at it. “Jag älskar dig, puls i mitt hjärta.”

  A tingle ran over her skin. Jag meant “I” and dig meant “you,” but she was lost about the other words. Sorcha pursed her lips and shrugged. A quick look around informed her that all her students wore wide smiles. What is happening?

  Clearing his throat, Lang held up the opened book and glanced at it. “Is tú mo ghrá—”

  He’s speaking Gaelic. Sorcha gasped and smacked a hand over her mouth to keep from speaking.

  “Is tú mo ghrá, A chuisle mo chrá.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, and she swallowed against the hard lump in her throat.

  Lang set down the book and walked across the bunkhouse, his smile growing. “In any language, Sorcha Geraghty, I love you, pulse of my heart. Will you marry me?” He reached for her hands and brought their handclasp tight against his chest.

  “Ja.” She blinked hard, but a tear slid down her cheek as she gazed into his teal-blue eyes. “Many times ja.”

  Lang flattened her left hand, reached into his trouser pocket, and then dropped something into her gloved palm.

  Finally, she looked down and saw a silver ring with a chain of the same color bunched around it.

  “Wearing the ring on a necklace is better, because it will rest closer to your heart.” Lang lifted it from her hand and looped the chain over her head.